


Leave me to the cold

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-War, Winter, byleth wants his blanket - the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He’s about to pardon Claude for disturbing him, but — it seems Claude is also tugging insistently at his sleeve for whatever reason, and that's a terrible sign. Byleth’s too exhausted to wonder why. He just knows he’d rather have a pillow stuffed with pegasi feathers than an Almyran King who lacks the decorum to leave him alone, flippantly asking, “Hello? You alive?”On a cold winter’s morning, Claude wakes Byleth.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Leave me to the cold

**Author's Note:**

> started this for practice, ended up with *gestures wildly* whatever this is oops

“Teach,” a strange voice pokes, rasper than usual. “Hey, Teach, wake up.”

Startled awake, the first thing Byleth feels is a twinge of panic, until he senses Claude nearby in bed; Claude's gentle touch on his shoulder, reassuring to ease his worries, and Byleth shuts his eyes again with a sigh. His throat must have dried after a night of sleep and lost that smooth, rumbling comfort Byleth’s so used to hearing in the morning, though the associated lips kissing him now are no less gentle than before.

He’s about to pardon Claude for disturbing him, but — it seems Claude is also tugging insistently at his sleeve for some reason, and that's a terrible sign. Byleth’s too exhausted to wonder why. He just knows he’d rather have a pillow stuffed with pegasi feathers than an Almyran King who lacks the decorum to leave him alone, flippantly asking, “Hello? You alive?”

 _There_ it is, Byleth thinks as he ignores him. He’s not about to wake up when he deserves another ten minutes — a lifetime? — of staying in bed. Besides, isn’t it custom for a war’s victor to get whatever they want? Wasn’t Claude the one who tell him that? 

Granted, there _have_ been rare occasions in the past where Claude’s warmth was a decent alternative to staying unconscious. Claude in bed, especially, is quite nice when he and Byleth are wrapped up beside one another and ignoring the rounds of diplomacy to come, tax reforms and discussions that only serve to lull Byleth back to bed after they’re taken care of. It’s one of the few things he wants and needs in this life, that comforting sense of rest.

“Uh, Teach?”

And Claude doesn’t fall anywhere near those things, not even close.

A finger pokes at his cheek, tempting Byleth to snap it off and blame it on his nightmares. (He’s technically living through one right now, so it’d be excusable.) Instead, he mercifully lets Claude test his patience harder as he says, “Gods, you’re not actually _dead_ , are you? Teach? Okay, fine, _Byleth?_ Hm… not responding to your beloved — I suppose you _must_ be dead. Ah, well, that’s a shame. After all, your army did loot all that coin from Enbarr’s coffers, and it just so happens that I’m at the tipping point of constructing that wyvern tower I always—”

“You are _not_ wasting our reserves on a wyvern-shaped tower,” he grumbles into Claude’s trap.

Claude claps his hands. “He lives yet!”

“Leave me alone.” Realizing any further speech would be playing into Claude’s hands, Byleth seals his lips, but not without begging, “Please.”

“Oh?” Claude has a knack for alerting everyone in the room to his presence. Speaking at the round table, for one; brandishing Failnaught in Enbarr’s walls while every Adrestian clutched at their throats, another. It’s all intimidation and charisma, and denying that he’s got them by the bucketload is impossible when, even with his eyes shut, Byleth can tell that Claude is sitting beside him with a dangerous smile. 

He’d once agreed that Almyrans deserve a chance at reconciliation, but half-blooded kings of Riegan heritage? He’ll have to reconsider it if they’re going to murmur like that, “I like it when you beg,” knowing exactly what they’re doing. “Do it again, and I’ll think twice.”

His lips twitch. “No.”

“That’s not proper behavior, Teach, denying a King.” He leans close, scent reminding Byleth he’s grown weak for all the wrong reasons. “Downright disrespectful, even.”

Still, “Too bad.”

“You know what? I decree you rise this instant. According to Almyra’s —”

“No.”

Claude changes tactic, pouting. “But... you’re missing out on something really big!” He’s gotten... _better_ at lying, Byleth thinks, which is concerning. “I promise it’s worth it.”

“Let me think about it.” Byleth thinks very, very hard for a millisecond. “No.”

Claude sighs. “Well, you asked for it,” he says mournfully. “Hard way it is.”

The next person to sew their blankets better include stones in their handiwork, even though blankets shouldn’t _need_ stones in order to spare a poor, exhausted ex-mercenary from having his own snatched away by a King who, in said ex-mercenary’s opinion, should be revoked of his title for damaging Byleth emotionally. But that's the price he’s paid for loving Claude, unfortunately — that, and the cold.

Or he can throw the stones at Claude the next time he parades their blanket around like a flag. “C’mon, up and at ‘em!” he shouts to wake the entire castle. “Busy day ahead!”

Refusing to be more than a corpse, Byleth sticks out a hand to jerk it back. And, of course, Claude sees it coming — he immediately jumps off the bed and out of arm’s length, but not so far that Byleth considers further attempts useless and doesn’t drag himself up, blinking away sleep to glare daggers instead.

“Give me the blanket.” Does that sound like anger? It does to Byleth. Claude’s expression tells a different story, but when does it not? “I’m tired, and I deserve sleep. Especially with a certain someone bothering me.”

The certain someone — chest bobbing mirthful, hair bedraggled in a way that isn’t fair, and smiling that smile Byleth doesn’t need in his life right now — feigns shock. “Who?” he asks, head darting side to side. “Did someone break in? Don’t tell me it was Hilda?”

“... Are we really doing this?”

“Yeesh, I knew she was excited for Goneril arrangements today but not —”

When Byleth’s voice hitches, it’s not far from a screech: “ _Today?”_

“Yeah, today. Right? What day is it today?” With a corner tucked under his shoulder, Claude ticks off his fingers, “Seventh, eighth...ah, got it, the ninth. So, not today.” He shrugs, but the curve to his grin betrays his intentions, both of them distinctly Claude-like. “Could’ve _sworn_ our day off was tomorrow. Oh well, honest mistake.”

“That’s it.” Annoying Byleth was one thing; prolonging his exhaustion was another. Lying about their one brief respite this entire moon to give him a momentary heart attack, if even possible considering, deserves retribution. He reaches after Claude.

Sleep deprivation, Byleth thinks. That’s the reason he’s slow on the upkeep and Claude is dodging his every move while holding up a massive tarp, smile growing wider to egg Byleth on. No matter how Byleth grabs, lunges, or paws at the covers, Claude seems to have no trouble outmaneuvering him on flighted toes, laughing. (He’s never giving Claude dance lessons again.)

Once Claude bundles up the blanket and dashes towards the door, Byleth’s worst suspicions are confirmed — he’s got a scheme in mind. Aside from trying to freeze Byleth solid in his pajamas — the same pajamas better-suited to Claude’s broadened shoulders — he has no idea what. Likely something ridiculous, but that’s a given with Claude. 

It’s all but guaranteed once he frolics out the room with a damned, “Catch me if you can!”

He doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? By this point Byleth is too cognizant to knock himself back out, and he sighs as he hops to his legs. Hopefully the castle isn’t waking yet, he thinks. No servants should have to witness Fodlan’s Leader running after a wayward King who lacks, again, _common decency._

And that’s not even decency by a King’s standards. In this case, Byleth is only thinking of the very low standards associated with a Claude. Duke Riegan, if Byleth’s _really_ generous, maybe the half to Byleth’s missing whole if he were minutes from the grave and Claude already dead beyond hearing. Above all else, he’s definitely not the reason Byleth refused to grab another blanket; why he’s chasing Claude as he laughs his way down the hall. What Byleth wants is that specific, boring, carbon-copy-of-every-blanket-in-this-castle blanket stashed in Claude’s arms. It probably smells like him by now, probably feels warm like him, probably resembles Claude in blanket form were he not six giggling feet of gorgeously irritating muscle.

He wants it.

Yet, there’s another nagging suspicion pricking at Byleth as he runs, sharper than the rug below his feet, growing with each passing window. He doesn’t understand it. The evening before was chilly, sure, but not enough to justify whatever weather’s knocking on Derdriu’s door now, hardly enough for Byleth to hold his not-beloved close and indulge in a little body heat, scrapes of a stubble. (It’s his last time giving Claude _that_ satisfaction, that’s for sure.)

Judging by the frigid air, the most reasonable explanation would have to be — 

_Snow._

The main gates to the castle have been inexplicably thrown open, providing a perfect view of the Goddess’ vengeful aftermath. Blanketed thick, the wasteland outside must have formed overnight, likely from the crystals falling from the sky. There’s no pavement in sight, only a few bulbs gasping for air, some pinprick branches of past trees. If Byleth squints, he can see the battlements of Derdriu blunted by frost as they scratch against the sky.

There’s not a single footstep in the snow. Byleth sighs — he was _sure_ he hadn’t let Claude out of his sights, but then again, it’s Claude. No hunter’s ever held the pleasure of catching _the_ Golden Deer alive (aside from Byleth, he supposes.) And though Claude is good at hiding his trail, he’s not quite so as to defy nature’s laws. He must have run further into the castle.

Insane. Is he actually going along with this rabbit hunt?

The hesitation in his step grows twicefold once Byleth realizes he’s wearing... something he wasn’t wearing before. He hadn’t noticed it earlier in his fascination with the outdoors, but feeling it wrapped his shoulders now — well, it explains a lot. Explains why he can’t lift a step without the something attacking his ankles, why he’s warmer than expected after ogling at all that white for a solid minute or two, not a shiver racking up since. 

It smells _just like him._

“Cozy?” Claude’s voice is less hoarse than before by his ear, though twice as grating. “Here, you can have it back. Acts of generosity are sorta my thing.”

Turning around would give Claude a view of his expression, so Byleth continues to stare at the outdoors. There’s no sign of sparkling green or straggled brown out there in the cold and freezing; it's the perfect source of inspiration for his response to Claude.

Instead, he mumbles, “Thank you.”

“Told you waking up was worth it.” He presses a kiss to his cheek, hands Byleth a heated mug. “It’s your first time seeing snow, isn’t it? _Actual_ snow, without the blood?”

Byleth nods, flushing for different reasons now. He had no idea it was so white. He’d just assumed grayish crimson falling from the sky was another strange pattern of the weather.

“Next time around, you’re visiting Almyra.” He points. “See all that? That’s a good day for us — wait until you see our winter solstices.”

Byleth hums in consideration as he takes a sip. The tea has a toasted nuttiness to it, interlaced with a hint of spice. How Claude found the time to steep it and outwit his senses _and_ ruin (note: better) Byleth’s morning escapes him, but he knows better than to ask; Claude’s just going to fool him again.

And Byleth would rather die on the spot than admit he actually appreciates Claude’s stunts, how he’d experience this all over again if he could — that is, his first real snowfall and picturing Claude six feet under it, because to hell with Claude now that he has Claude-the-blanket.

“It’s beautiful,” he says as Claude loops an arm around his waist and, against his better interests, Byleth leans into his touch. The kiss to his forehead is gentle, and Byleth can feel those scheming lips of his grinning as he continues, “Just you wait. I’m getting my revenge later.”

Clearly the threat doesn’t work. Claude simply laughs and says, “Wait until the snowball fight, sweetheart,” and Byleth finds it despicable how, wrapped up against his beloved, he's never felt warmer. 


End file.
